Burnt

In some relationships, couples disagree on the settings of the thermostat. In every season, it’s either too hot or too cold. Gas bills cool the temperature before any arguments get hot. Yet, the battle of the toaster dial settings? That will be my Waterloo.

Toast is a daily food in our house. At any given time of day, the Carpenter enjoys his stack of peanut butter toast, sometimes with a sticky layer of strawberry jam, or English muffins smeared with peanut butter. Not me. My personal preference is sourdough bread, toasted with butter. 

Thus, the toaster is the most used small appliance in our kitchen, second only to the kettle and the French press for coffee. Our fancy blue retro toaster has sleek browning dials. It’s the classiest accessory on our counter-top (read: whole kitchen).

Unfortunately neither of us can read the dial settings for how dark or light to make the toast. Since I am the only person in this marriage who wears glasses (which is not the same as saying I’m the only person who needs them, ahem), I struggle to see the fine lines that represent the settings on the dial. Herein lies the issue.

The Carpenter likes his toast strongly toasted. I wouldn’t say burnt, because it’s not charred, more like slightly scorched. He leaves the toaster set on the higher end of the dial where seconds count between making the toast blackened to full on incineration. Somehow, he always catches the bread before it’s destroyed. A sixth sense, perhaps. A single-minded focus, more like it. He knows when to push the pop-up button before it goes too far.

Yet the Carpenter doesn’t remember to reset the toaster dial to a level the rest of humanity enjoys, somewhere near the middle: mildly toasted. Evenly browned from square crust to the top rounded crust and all points in between, like the perfect shade of a bonfire marshmallow. Toasted, not roasted. That’s the correct setting.  Everyone knows that. If you mess with the dial, you have to reset it. It’s a life rule. Sheesh.

The butter knife should scrape the top of the toast without black carnage scraping off with it, leaving burnt crumbs sticking to the buttery knife, then stuck to the pad of butter, a crumby surprise for the next person who uses that butter. Who does this? My barbarian housemate, that’s who. It’s not right. Was he born in a barn? Short answer: yes.

As luck would have it, one morning I was down to the last two pieces of my sliced sourdough loaf. While I toasted them, I unloaded the dishwasher, reloaded it with sink dishes, fed the cat, wiped down the counters and packed my lunch. I call this multi-tasking; the Carpenter calls it being distracted from the task at hand. And yes, I did assume the toaster setting was correct. 

First came the burning smell. Then the pop of the toaster hinges, sending two slices of singed bread flying up. A thin vapour swirled from the toaster, cooled and disappeared, mocking me as it left. My toast was decimated. Breakfast destroyed. Oatmeal it is.

Yes, the battle of the toaster setting is my Waterloo. I never learn. 

Hope the Carpenter can find his peanut butter. I have no idea where I hid it.